


Sweet-and-Twenty

by Renata Lord (snowlight)



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Family Issues, M/M, Pre-Canon, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 17:00:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22346809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowlight/pseuds/Renata%20Lord
Summary: It's 1967 and César is trying to enjoy the last weeks of his year in Georgetown as an exchange student...except he's angry about it.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 4
Collections: Serenata de Amor





	Sweet-and-Twenty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iris242x (lokiikol)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lokiikol/gifts).



> It's not my fault that the real-life César Gaviria said that he had gone to Georgetown and didn't learn all that much while there!  
> This ficlet is rooted in our headcanon that César has a controlling/manipulative grandfather.

_July 1967_  
Georgetown University, Washington D.C

Summers in Washington D.C are hot and humid like a wetsuit that clings to one’s skin, but the weather never seems to bother college students. It’s way above 90 degrees outside, but the frisbee crowd are out _en masse_ on the Great Lawn, and the SDS people are making it rain yellow flyers. Sitting here inside the comfortably air-conditioned library, he has to hand it to them—

“When’s the next demonstration?” 

He turns and finds his language partner standing behind him. As César cranes his neck to get a better view of the window, he catches a glimpse of the diamond stud that sparkles against the Colombian’s dusky earlobe.

“They’re planning a big one in October,” he says. “In front of the Lincoln Memorial, I heard.”

César hums and sits down on the other side of the long, oaken table. “I’m not late, am I?”

“No,” he fibs, “I just got here early.”

*

Despite the urge to look up every two minutes, he manages to finish the work somehow. In fact, he goes out of his way to _not_ bother César, checking and rechecking his notes five times before asking for help. Truth be told, it’s a bit of a mystery why César agreed to the language exchange in the first place—he might not talk as fast as some, and sometimes the accent comes through, but the guy speaks English as well as anybody. 

“I’m telling you; I’ll be so glad when all this is over and done with,” he sighs at the end, “I’m counting the days till the end of the month.”

“Until your final exam?”

“Yup, and then summer will be officially two-thirds over.”

César puts the pen down, looking thoughtful.

“And I’ll be on a plane going back to Bogotá.”

Ah yes, the inevitable reminder. Yet something pricks at him, sharp and insistent. He pushes the books aside.

“Are you looking forward to it?”

The question appears to catch César off-guard. It takes a moment before the Colombian answers, “all summers end.”

“I wish you could stay,” that’s the thing to say, right? “Next year is going to be exciting. I was thinking of going to that October demonstration.”

“We have enough excitement in Colombia,” says César not unkindly, but he feels like a puppy that’s just been kicked.

“Right. And your family will be happy to see you,” he finishes lamely.

César presses his lips into a thin line that’s hard to read—but then again, when has he ever figured out what César is thinking? One glance from those dark eyes and his stomach starts to churn, making it impossible to concentrate. 

“How did you end up here in Georgetown, anyway?” César comes from a well-to-do family, that much he’s certain, even if he’s too sheepish to poke around for details. But if his prep school classmates’ track records are anything to go by, those rich Latin American kids prefer the Ivys. 

“My grandfather sent me here.”

“Oh!” he lights up, “Is he an alum?”

“I presume by that you mean alumnus,” says César, “but no. He simply thought I would meet the right kind of people here.”

“Well…did you?”

César only smiles at him in response. He feels lightheaded but somehow manages to keep on talking: “Come think of it, half of my extended family are alums here. My Gramps just loves this place, because of the Catholic connection. He’s given a lot of money to it over the years, and…”

He catches himself mid-sentence. It’s not a secret. Not really. Anybody who’s in the know, knows. But here and now, it feels like a confession.

“Did you notice a giant portrait hung high up on the wall as you walked in here?”

César shrugs almost imperceptibly. 

“That’s Gramps. He donated this whole building, books and tables and chairs and all.” 

“Grandfather, huh?” 

“Yeah. I’m actually named after him, too.”

César studies him for a moment and eventually flashes an alarmingly charming grin. “Now that you mention it, I can certainly see the physical resemblance. The nose, especially.”

So much for his hope that César would _somehow_ overlook the very distinctive aquiline nose that ran in his family, then. “My mom didn’t get it, but I guess it skips a generation,” he touches his nose bridge a little self-consciously before rallying: “It’s fine, though. We used to spend every summer together. He’s taught me how to ride horses, how to hunt deer, all that good stuff.”

“Did he teach you anything else?” César stands up and stretches before coming to his side of the table. 

“Well, the Catholic faith also skips a generation,” he answers half-jokingly. “People have always said that I’m a chip off the old block, and it’s not just because of the nose.”

They are sitting a little too close for comfort, and he shudders when he realizes that César has one hand right on the edge of his thigh, barely touching and just enough to leave him wanting more.

“So, we are sitting in this nice library with your grandfather’s name on it.” César’s voice is barely above a whisper. He wants to ask what’s César doing, but that’s not the same as asking him to _stop._ Besides, that would be a lie. He has done this before, with girls wearing expensive dresses and perfumes, but none of them ever looked half as terrified as he feels now, and it’s pointless to ask how they got here. 

“César, I…” he trails off, feeling like he’s about to fail a final exam.

He nearly jumps up when César leans over and places one hand firmly on his inner thigh. The shock is palpable.

“Does that mean they won’t throw us out even if they catch us fucking inside it?”

Every word is far too loud. He can’t breathe. His face is burning and César is squeezing him and _ohGodohGod_ —

When César drags him up and leads him away, he doesn’t ask where they are going. He can’t form a single word at all.

*

César’s grip is firm, and he struggles to follow. By the time they reach the library vault and his head hits against the tall shelves with a clang, he has given up all attempts to slow down. And César is on him, all solid weight and bold shape, grunting in a way that makes his knees go weak. But he is safely ensconced between the shelves and César, between cold metal and warm body, and they kiss likes there’s no tomorrow, like the Great Flood is coming and they are the only two souls on the ark. 

He shudders again when César unzips his pants and pulls the underwear down, gasping as the vault’s chilly air hits naked skin. But then he feels César’s hand on his cock, and the world is perfectly wonderful again. César breaks the kiss to spit into a hand, then starts to work him with certain, efficient strokes. He lets out a high-pitched gasp as César thumbs over the head of his cock, and another, more out of pain than pleasure, when he feels teeth clamping down on his neck. 

“Be quiet,” César licks at the sore spot but holds onto him in a way that brooks no argument, “unless you want to them to hear you.”

He has forgotten about all that until now. Panic rises inside of him alongside the all-too-familiar shame of wanting, but lust overpowers everything. He brings a fist up to his mouth to muffle his cries and bites into his own knuckles. 

And his eyes hurt. At first, he thinks it’s the books: The leather-bound legal volumes, yellowed and dusty, are shrouded in a faint musty smell. It certainly can’t be César, who smells like heat and desire. It’s not until he hears the sob in his gasp that he realizes it’s tears stinging his eyes.

César only bites down again, though this time a little softer. He’s shamefully hard inside César’s palm, quivering and waiting for release, but if he still had a voice he would beg for more time, for more kisses, for this to not end. He would drop to his knees and beg for César to stay in Georgetown if he had a snowball’s chance in hell, would do it between sucking César’s cock and kissing his balls.

He gains his voice back but only because he hears a heavy door being swung open. Voices are calling out to each other. César hears it, too, but the Colombian only cocks his head to one side and grins at him. 

“We are about to find out the answer to my earlier question, aren’t we?”

He does beg then. He wants for César to stop, to finish, to do _anything_ except for dragging this out, but all that comes out of his mouth is a frantic string of “please.” César gives him a thin smile, and a horrible eternity seems to pass before César finally says, “All right.”

Then he is left alone panting against the shelves with cargo pants pooled around his knees. César wipes a hand on the metal, takes one brisk turn around the shelves and disappears for good. Then he hears the slightly accented English again, asking the interlopers for directions out of this _terribly_ enormous vault.

By the time he fixes himself up and stumbles his way back to the table, the Colombian is already gone, but the ache inside him hasn’t subsided. It gnaws at him like a secret thorn, hidden deep inside his body.

**Author's Note:**

> Iris and I also have the headcanon that César spent his stay in Georgetown exploring his sexuality (reads: sleeping around a lot).


End file.
